


Catch And Release

by carmenjones



Series: Thrown By A Curve [1]
Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Baseball, Canon Compliant, F/M, Future Fic, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, My First Fanfic, My First Work in This Fandom, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 18:43:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmenjones/pseuds/carmenjones
Summary: In the wake of an abrupt season ending to "Gin-sanity," Mike Lawson and Ginny Baker both begin to ponder on words left unsaid and where things begin to go from here.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lerayon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lerayon/gifts).



> Picks up where episode #10 "Don't Say It" leaves off. Prelude to a multi-chaptered Bawson slow burn.

>   _If there was a God out there, he damned sure wasn’t worth praying to._

At least that’s what Mike Lawson used to tell himself. He didn’t mind reverent incantations escaping a woman’s lips while burrowing deeper to discover creamy thighed treasures in between variety packs of groupies and gold-diggers. As a matter of fact, he relished it. All things considered, those were the only type of hymnals worth repeating. Jesus, Mary and Joseph were more than welcome to get on the guest lists of those private parties. Sacrilege was his specialty, not spirituality. Once he realized that there wasn’t a Santa Claus, being married didn't guarantee fidelity, moms do leave and dads weren’t worth waiting around for, he’d all but given up on putting his faith into something bigger than him. At least other than the game he’d devoted a lifetime to itself.

Still, as he clasped his hands together in almost silent invocation, an “end of the line for Ginny Baker?” chyron taunting him onscreen as fully fledged panic is wont to do, he suddenly craved a taste of that old-time religion. He wanted to be newly converted. Baptized as a born again optimist willing the baseball gods to reverse their cruel intentions.

Fortune was supposed to favor the bold, wasn’t it? By even average standards, watching her follow through from the wind up, feminista rants repurposed as assertions separating their personal from their professional — cool and collected — on this spectacularly sunny September afternoon, there was no doubt that Ginny Baker was locked in the motherfucking zone. 

Powder kegs of euphoria kindled through each successive pitch after realizing this glass ceiling gatecrasher was on the precipice of doing what Andrew Cashner, Randy Jones, Dick Kelley, Steve Arlin, Andy Ashby, Clay Kirby and Chris Young could not. Not only seal the deal with her trick bag of offspeed opposite breaking balls, but standing alone as a league milestone. A franchise first. Again. As a _woman_. And a **_Black_ ** woman at that. In their 48-year history, never had any San Diego starter ever pitch a no-no. But here she was, merely three outs away. Closer than those unlucky seven bastards who preceded her, while holding a playoff-bound Dodgers batting lineup to zilch. Even Hollywood couldn’t script a full circle redemption arc any sweeter. Yet in an instant, electric buzzes of excitement rippling through the Padres faithful at Petco immediately shifted on a dime. Of anybody with double bookings of preparation and opportunity happening simultaneously, Ginny deserved better than dumb luck of losing it all while fielding a bunt. _Christ_. A fucking bunt. Mike wasn’t sure about the man upstairs even existing nor about his sense of humor if he did, but he knew there was a helluva lot of explaining to do. 

So, maybe she shouldn’t have played fast and loose with tradition by mentioning it out loud. Maybe Charlie and the rest of the front office stiffs should’ve put stress fractures and arm strain considerations over servicing corporate skyboxes. Maybe Al and Buck erred in taking velocity and pitch counts alone at face value. But maybe… just _maybe_ , Mike bared the biggest responsibility for failing his rookie when what she really needed was wise council, not stilted encouragement the most. As her catcher. As her captain. As her teammate. As her friend. As…

The television was still paused on Rachel Patrick’s “On Point” studio segment ruminating where all roads laid from here for the Padres as an organization and an infamously injured RHP. He stared into the face of his once and future past and present embodied within one strawberry blonde sports journalist. Inside the TV screen’s upper right corner, there was an inset image of Ginny, “Baker 43” emblazoned on her blue & maize home whites, clutching her elbow in agony sending his heart racing anew. If a picture told a thousand words, that singular snapshot of paradise lost made him incapable of forgetting those java brown pools of uncertainty laser focused his own a mere eight hours before.

Closing his eyes, he recalled Blip’s on-field onceover, razor sharp and still painfully fresh. The undercurrent of _“I told you so”_ clearly unmistakable as it belied anxiety both players felt as Ginny left under her own power, with assistance to a waiting trio of trainers.

The remembrance spurs him to inhale, then exhale, then repeating, rearranging his thoughts. Deciding on a course of action to take next. He glances around the contours of his glass and stucco bachelor pad, the minimalist modernity amplifying an icy emptiness that pale ale lager just wouldn’t shake. Right then, Mike couldn’t will himself to play patsy and wait for third hand updates any longer than necessary. He had to go. He had to see her.

 

* * *

 

> _“You know, one day you're gonna be at your lowest point and you're gonna look up and you're gonna need someone. And it's not gonna be your dead father. And it's not gonna be your conman brother. It's gonna be me. And I'm not gonna be here for you…”_

 

Ginny Baker chokes out a bitter laugh at the prescient irony of her now former agent’s finger pointing coming true only hours prior to their pregame blowout. The brazen blonde couldn’t be bothered learning what differentiated a split-finger from a sinker, but she still managed to have her aspersions land with an accuracy of Zack Greinke painting the corners.

Amelia was gone. Will was gone. Her dad was gone. 

Communication between both women of the immediate Baker family could only be described as complicated, to put it mildly. Everything was still all strained on the mother/daughter front. But facing an uphill battle with nary a loved one around, Ginny wasn’t entirely opposed to wishing her mom was here. Holding her close, telling her how thin she looked, and smiling bravely through it all. Hospitals may be where life and death were conjoined twins, but to Ginny, it was mortality which loomed largest. The antiseptic smells. Fluorescent lighting which made changing room tryouts at swimsuit season’s peak seem sensibly quaint by comparison. Worried looks of family and friends in waiting rooms grasping onto any slivers of estimated hope to make bedside vigils seem a bit more bearable. 

Mostly she flashes back to the night Bill Baker died unexpectedly minutes after basking in what finally felt like doing right by his sky-high expectations. The night when a Padres scout set into motion the dreams of a determined father deferred and then realized in his only daughter. 

Right now, she just wanted to feel a connection with someone who cared about Ginny, the flesh and blood woman staring down an uncertain future with an even more uncertain backup plan. Not the barrier breaking ballplayer. Not the airbrushed glamazon in print ads beckoning consumers to “just do it.” Not the role model. Only Ginny Baker, flaws, fears and all. 

She manages to sit upright in her hospital bed, adjusting a stack of memory foam pillows which began its natural slide down her back when soft rapping against the door alerts her to a visitor’s presence lurking just outside the hallway’s corner.

“A 113 count through eight innings and you had to jinx it.” Mike teases as he walks in room 507, aiming for breezy rapprochement but landing squarely on her emotional hot button instead, feet first. 

Tears that brimmed along her upper lashes upon recalling Amelia’s parting shot but didn’t find a landing spot earlier now fell without further coercion. Ginny clenched her jaw and fidgets with her patient gown, now acutely aware of how much the polyester shift had ridden up precariously as Mike pulls up a chair alongside her adjustable bed. 

The sight of this slender spitfire then unafraid of reading him the riot act during a nationally televised game —mouths inexplicably uncovered rehashing the awkwardness of an almost kiss— now fragile and solitary cuts him to the quick. Her cinnamon skin once alight with sweat and steely determination was pallid and sallow amid the abrupt change in scenery. Guilt washes over him heavily once more. Why was he so hell bent on restoring team hierarchy that he couldn’t concede Blip’s reservations were more serious than a trade fallout’s sour grapes? 

He takes Ginny’s hand into his, lightly rubbing his timeworn callouses along newly burgeoning ridges on the inside of her palm. Intertwining his long, stocky fingers with her lithe brown ones, Mike appears chastened and he tries another tack in a much softer tone of voice. 

“Today’s probably seen more mulligan moments to last a lifetime and didn’t mean to add onto the scoreboard tally. Could we rewind that opener again?” 

“Your apologies are a lot like your short hop errors at first base, old man. Awkward as fuck. Almost Buckner-esque, really,” Ginny muses before revealing twin deep set dimples in a closed mouth half smile.

Dropping his head in mock surrender, Mike barks out a peal of laughter sheepishly, admitting defeat from one bullseye zinger. “Touché, Baker, touché.” 

“But seriously, how are you feeling? Are you managing the pain okay?” 

Ginny nods, “Strictly NSAIDs for now, but that’s subject to change depending on how far teeth grinding takes me,” then attempting to shift again before wincing out her discomfort with a barely suppressed groan. 

“Here, let me do that,” Mike rises to his feet and leans over to anchor her disabled right arm bandaged in a sling while Ginny angles her body out the way of a covered dinner tray left untouched. Mike sneaks a peek underneath the plastic dome and sees a smothered chicken breast atop a small scoop of orzo and mixed vegetables remaining exactly as deposited. 

“Needing help, even of the temporary, pharmaceutical kind isn’t a sign of weakness, Baker. You know that, right? Supervised care is for your utmost benefit right now. Take the meds.” 

“I know, Lawson. It’s just that the harder stuff scares me a bit. Just being here under these circumstances scares me enough as is.” Ginny admits, timidly ducking away from his gaze to play with an idle string loosened on her bedside blanket.

Mike leans over to brush an errant curl back away from her forehead and just pauses for a moment. He knows he probably looks like hell, mussed hair, unkempt beard, eyes heavy with worry and words which should’ve been said on an empty sidewalk now filed under “conversations to be had: date unknown.” Even with the weight of the world resting on such slim shoulders and in spite of stumbling blocks threatening to steal away her life’s joy, she’s still so fucking beautiful. It would take a fool not to notice otherwise. He wants to kiss away her pain. He swears silently at Oscar a hundred million ways for a cellular intrusion that should’ve waited. He curses himself for boarding one more lift ticket to ride another emotional rollercoaster with Rachel after spending the night without even an inkling of any further clarity.

He wants. He wants. He wants. He doesn’t know what the hell he wants.

Instead of pulling her into his conflict undertow by opening up, Mike does what he’s best at. Resuming his hit one-man stage play, _Avoidance_.

He clears his throat as a matter of resetting the awkward tension coursing through his body, pivoting to ask, “If superheroes can take five for sleep and sustenance, why haven’t you touched the grub, Baker?” 

“Well, even hospital food shouldn't resemble a diagnosis in need of Monistat,” she deadpanned. 

They both lock eyes at her disgustingly funny curveball left hanging and burst into uncontrollable laughter together on cue. 

“Chemical highs have done wonders for your comic timing, Rook.” He winks and then dips into a large brown paper shopping bag Ginny didn’t notice him bring in upon arrival. “Lucky for you, I figured a special delivery might help turning your sullen frown upside down.”

She peers behind his back and suddenly the mouthwatering smell wafting out triggers olfactory memories of midnight munch sessions in Mission Hills gone by. Her eyes light up in sudden recognition. 

“Is it Lucha Libre, Lawson? _Is it?_ Tell me it is!” 

He passes an aluminum foil wrap approximately the size of a toddler too quickly past Ginny’s nose for her to grab hold of. “Maybe I’ll just keep this for myself. Probably against Dr. Allison— he peers over at her chart for further details— Maynard’s orders, so…” He shrugs and then begins pulling out utensils.

“C’mon Mike! Dammit, quit being a tease and give it to me!” Her voice once sleepy and spent had suddenly roared back to life with snotty intensity.

He whips his head around, a smirk betraying his lips as her obvious double entendre doesn’t quite sink in.

_Until it does_. Heat rises along her neckline and she stammers out a hasty denial. “You know what I meant, old man. I was talking about **the food**.”

“Mmhmm. Sure. We’ll go with that,” he murmurs bemused. “Here you go, suffering’s over. Have a bite of heaven,” a still warm Surfin’ California burrito halved is slid in her direction. 

Ginny digs in gleefully as the savory combo of steak, shrimp, avocado, french fries, pico de gallo, cheese and chipotle sauce explode to create symphonies of flavor fiestas in her mouth. 

“Oh. my. God…,” she moans appreciatively. “How did I get this far in life surviving on Taco Bell when this exists?” 

“You were an uncultured bumpkin. Good thing ducklings like you become quick studies of what **authentic** Mexican food is _supposed_ to taste like. For Chrissakes, eating Taco Bell when you live in an actual mecca for the real deal's no different than putting ketchup on prime rib. A goddamned abomination. The more you know, Baker.” 

Ginny narrows her eyes, wheels of witty repartee revving up to continue their ongoing verbal thrusts and parries when a petite Salvadoran nurse peers her head inside. She shakes her side parted, jet black bob and wags her stubby finger disapprovingly. 

“Misses Baker, visitors’ hours ended over two hours ago. I hate to put your friend out, but he has to—,” her voice halts before realizing who Ginny’s guest was and her dark irises twinkle. 

“¡Madre de dios, Mike Lawson! Oh, my son Cristobal is your biggest fan! He wants to play catcher for the Padres too! I’m Joharis,” as Nurse Mejía gives him a tiny wave of acknowledgement bashfully. 

“Well, whaddya know. Seems like Cristobal and _Misses Baker_ have a lot in common then,” he drolled as a blush of color sends Ginny’s cheeks into rose-colored territory. “Get on over here and let’s snap a selfie to add on his wall too.” Joharis squeals in delight as her pocket Android appears while she maneuvered herself slightly in front both Padres to frame a Kodak moment. 

Joharis retrieves the photostream to beam enthusiastically at her picture taking proficiency when she reviews two smiling ballplayers linking arms behind a grinning nurse procuring a surprise family gift. “The look of love, no?,” she prods rhetorically as the screen flips around so Baker and Lawson can both examine the finished product also. 

Mike’s hand circled under Ginny’s injured right side, holding her close with the tenderest of care. His usually intense gaze staring straight into the camera of promotional Padres glossies is softened immeasurably. The lines on his forehead furrow in contentment and he seems completely relaxed. 

Ginny leans her entire left side into Mike so much so Lawson’s right knee appears as if it’s her own personal bed prop. Although her brown eyes appeared vacant, searching for answers far beyond this confined space of a hospital room at admission, next to Mike, the merriment and mischief had magically returned. Her toothy grin appeared far from forced or an affect. Ginny’s aura reflected genuine happiness, true and restored.

They both smile uneasily and Mike falls back on his old defense mechanism to break the ice first. 

“Baker’s always found me irresistible, so you’ll have to forgive her heart eyes saved to Cristobal for posterity.”

“Isn’t there an _Unsolved Mysteries_ marathon airing somewhere that requires your undivided attention, old man?” 

Joharis chortles with her entire upper body, bosoms heaving in amusement underneath her scrub top at their back and forth as she heads out to complete her nightly rounds. “Misses Baker has a point, Mister Lawson. I gave you a pass, but the next time I sweep through this wing’s side, you better be gone. No excuses!”

The door snicks close and Mike’s eyes follow Nurse Mejía’s trail out as he stretches his legs in readiness to do the same. 

“Well, I guess it’s my time…”

“Yeah.”

Mike retrieves one more item from the brown paper shopping bag before placing it on Ginny’s lap, folding it up and putting it under his arm as he moves to make his exit.

“You really are a grumpy mascot at heart, Lawson,” she laughs while glancing at the stuffed teddy bear wearing his Padres #36 jersey.

“Just a little something to keep you warm at night,” he smiles over before thrumming the door frame three times as almost a superstitious re-balancing. “I’ll try to make it here again at a decent hour after we wrap up this homestand tomorrow. We'll sweep those bums in your honor, Rook.” 

She nods okay and grinned warmly back.

It isn’t until after she snuggles the plush fuzz to her chest that she feels a sharpened edge that requires further inspection. Ginny looks down and notices a shiny pendant hanging around the bear’s neck.

One half of a white gold split heart charm. Left wordlessly for her to find on her own.

**Author's Note:**

> As this is my first attempt at fanfiction writing (ever!) and trying my hand out with a maiden voyage entry to the fandom, all comments are welcome, but please be kind!
> 
> Feel free to give me a shout on [tumblr](http://thetriniprincess.tumblr.com)!


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